


A Red Tricycle

by NikitaSunshine



Category: Homeland
Genre: Comfort, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:53:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/pseuds/NikitaSunshine
Summary: "Do what I say," and they both know this may be the first and last time she follows his orders.





	A Red Tricycle

"Carrie"

"Quinn"

Carrie's stressed.

"Thank god"

"Hurry, this way"

He lowers the gun, sees the president-elect's face, her fear and panic. He has to move quickly. It's been a while, but he knows how this will go down. Delta team closing in on the parking garage, not stopping until they've killed the three of them. More weapons outside, more than he can count.

He puts his arm around the president-elect, trying to keep her from panicking, but letting her know the score just the same. "There's a small army on the streets. Snipers up." He has to get the words out fast before they escape him, trying not to think too hard about what he is saying. "And we don't know who's friendly." He leads her to the side of the car and guides her in. "Get on top of her." Carrie follows behind, turns at the last minute. He knows what's coming next. "Quinn". Wait, that's not what he expected. He's not sure he's seen that look before. Doesn't know quite how to read it. Resignation? Maybe... Later. He was expecting her to argue and knows she's weighing the options. But she sees how this goes down as well. "Do what I say," and they both know this may be the first and last time she follows his orders.

Carrie gets in and he rounds the back of the car quickly, before she can have second thoughts, do the math. Before the Deltas find them. He hops in the drivers seat, races out of the garage towards the sunlight as the first rounds hit the car. Well, he called that right. Out into open air, so close to freedom. But. He quickly assesses, mind feeling sharper than it has in a long time. Muscle memory and adrenaline. 

To the left, a line of bombed out vehicles, soldiers, barricades. The car can't get through, too much to slow them down. That's a no go. 

To the right, a line of Deltas and officers, with their rifles trained on them. And snipers all around. He knows they'll fire at him. They're either the good guys shooting at an unknown man acting erratically in the middle of an assassination attempt, or the bad guys who presumably know the president is in the car and have orders to kill on sight. Other than that, a clear path. If he can just get them out of the kill zone, into the safe place, there will be too many civilians for the enemy to get close without arousing suspicion.

"What's happening?" Carrie's voice snaps him into action. He stares back at the line of armed men. Knowing he might die, killed by his own kind. Poetic justice in that. He's been in this situation many times before. Some fear, some detachment. And regret. Why? But purpose, determination. He has a mission. And he also knows their best chance at survival is if he lives. Now is not the time to question. Bring it on, assholes. "Stay down."

It's go time. He turns the wheel with one hand and slams on the accelerator. Stares straight ahead, willing the ammo to stop in its tracks, willing even more for the car to go faster, faster, for fucks sake. The bullets are a hail of metal against metal, a slot machine. The car picks up speed, the window starts to crack. He can barely see out. Then, finally, a large hole shatters. It hits with such force he can feel it in his bones, his teeth. His body convulses. Almost like physical pain. And again. He shakes it off. Much better, he can finally see the street beyond the line of men. Safety. He slams the accelerator even harder.

Then things start to change. He feels a warmth over his body, quickly replaced by a coldness. His peripheral vision begins to fade. The hole through the windshield becomes the only sight he sees, like looking through a sniper rifle. And it's all he needs. 

So why doesn't this feel right? His mind moves more slowly. It's been that way for a while now, but this is different. It's not just his thoughts this time, everything around is in slow motion. He knows the car is still moving quickly as they race past the line of fire, but everything else feels hazy, distant, too. He feels a warmth in his mouth. Never a good sign for him. He coughs up blood, and suddenly realizes he doesn't have much time left. He starts to turn his head to speak, but forces himself to stay focused, alert. The small line of vision he has remaining closes in. He senses there are pedestrians ahead, drawn to the scene he just left behind 100 yards away. Drawn to the damage, the death. He knows he needs to warn them, these parasites of destruction, alert them to the danger to keep them safe, alert them to the danger to keep the president elect safe. He allows his hand to fall to the horn and pushes as hard as he can. His foot slips off the pedal. He lets the car slow and aims towards a parked car, away from the civilians.

It's so hard to keep his eyes open, to stay focused on the present. He feels his thoughts disappearing. Always at the worst moment. He sees a flash of light, a flair of blond hair. A voice saying his name, a voice he holds dear more than anything. Filled with care, but is it enough? He's not sure he can trust it with his life, yet it moves him still. A mysterious woman with a German accent, calm, familiar, though with a surprising twist, something he hadn't noticed before. Then long white ears on a soft fluffy body, in the arms of a red-headed child, overwhelming him with feelings of vulnerability, but also a fierce need to protect. Things get darker, an enclosure, a hissing sound, an odorless poison. Loss of control, loss of everything. He's moving backwards in time. A drug-induced hug, blood on his hand, a shock of recognition on solving a puzzle. Then heat, dryness, the desert, endless death and suffering, a feeling of loneliness and loss that comes only when you've had something to lose. A false glimmer. Then, a feeling of kinship, belonging, a purpose, but tinged with remorse and regret. A sacrifice that is both selfish and selfless. More than one, actually, sparing a friend her pain, sparing a child. A child. His child? Things get murky again. More death, more despair. An uneasy sense of belonging now, still, better than the alternative. Using others, being used, a loss of innocence time and time again, if that innocence was ever there.

He realizes he's somewhere else now. He is on a red tricycle, racing down the driveway, reaching the street and making a sharp right turn. Pedaling fast, so so fast. Trying to escape from the yelling, the hitting, the people doing things to his mommy. Things he doesn't understand, things he tries to stop because he knows they are hurting her. Punching and biting, fighting so hard, but too small to make a difference. Stuck in a corner, forgotten, dirty and hungry, unable to look away... He keeps pedaling, hoping his tricycle will take flight, that he will become the superhero that could take them away from this place. But he's running out of room, coming to the end of the street, parked cars at the road's dead end. His legs burning from the effort, his eyes stinging with tears. A flash of blond again. Even if she can't get away, if she insists on staying behind and losing her soul to the badness, maybe he can escape. Just maybe. He feels himself starting to tire, losing the fight.

Then, a hand reaches down. A hand so strong, and so gentle. He looks up and sees an older version of himself, wise steely-blue eyes, smiling sadly but still hopeful. He feels himself being scooped up in this man's arms, and finally feels a sense of love and trust. Peace and security. No more pain. No more torture. He closes his eyes and finally gives in, lets the serenity take over. Down below, the red tricycle gradually winds down to a crawl, wheels spinning slower and slower, until it comes to rest gently against the side of a parked car.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the very last part first, and it was the main reason I wrote the story. The first part was an attempt to understand what happened and why.


End file.
